Red and Gray
by Sadhana
Summary: What Jim's thankful for this Thanksgiving. A SUPER angsty JAM oneshot I wrote a few months ago.


November felt like a ghost that year. The trees looked dryer than usual, the cracked bark seemed more weathered, and the leaves shriveled into brown wafer skeletons rather than the beautiful orange and gold autumnal specialty. Even the birds had fallen to silence, and the sky only came in varying shades of gray. The air chilled, as it often does by the end of fall, but the cold for some reason felt unexpected this time. As if Jim had just been expecting the mild winters that never come to Northern Pennsylvania to suddenly pay a visit.

Jim held his daughter's tiny hand tighter, hoping they could warm each others' gloveless hands with combined body heat. But his fingers still prickled in pain with winter's oncoming chill as they walked hand in hand up the hill, it's dry yellow grass crunching beneath their every step. He stuffed his other hand into his coat pocket, and breathed out his mouth, a wisp of white mist trailing from his lips.

They reached the top of the hill, and Jim froze, his momentum stopping so suddenly that his daughter jerked forward a little. He hadn't meant to pause here, but the air had hitched in his throat the moment he caught sight of it. Two years and his heart still got caught in anxious despair at the top of this hill.

"Daddy," Amber murmured softy. It wasn't a question; it was a reminder. Jim looked down at his little girl, her round face gazing up at him with a consoling empathy so above her age. Her pale green eyes said everything. He nodded his head, and smiled at her. Jim pet her light brown curls. In her understanding, Amber let go of her father's hand, and sat down in the grass to idly pick at it. Jim looked forward, and walked ahead with the added bravery of his daughter sitting ten feet away from him.

It wasn't so much the logical thought of what he was approaching that scared him as it was the bittersweet longing it caused him every time he saw it. And when he stopped at the foot of the grave, every memory hit him as vividly as a tidal wave.

Pamela Halpert

March 1 1979 - January 25 2012

_those who have loved, they have lived_

The wind had pushed a snowdrift of brown withered leaves around the base of the pale gray gravestone, covering the old flowers that had been left beneath the engraved words. Jim burrowed his hands in his pockets, and looked down at the slab of stone that failed to substitute for Pam's bright laugh, Pam's tender lips, Pam's falling and rising back from beneath the sheets as she slept. He wished, oh how he wished, that visiting her grave substituted at all for her smile or her rebukes when he had done something wrong. But he only felt emptier, standing here, acknowledging what was missing from his heart. Jim's face flushed with all the things he wished he could tell her.

"Hi, Pam," he said with a weak smile. "It's Thanksgiving tomorrow. Thanksgiving was your favorite holiday, remember?" _Was_ your favorite holiday... He hated the past tense.

He couldn't see Pam in that cold gray stone, no matter what it symbolized. Her pink cheeks and auburn hair, none of that could be found here. All that he could see was the same color gray that the oncoming headlights had looked like in the night just before that car hit them. He remembered _that_ distinctly. They were gray headlights, not yellow. And he could never forgive himself for surviving that moment when Pam didn't make it, and it reminded him sickeningly of how Dwight had told him once that in the event of a crash, the driver always protects his side first.

"Your parents are going to come. I don't know if I can prepare things as nicely as you always did..." he continued, almost unaware of what he was saying. On Thanksgiving, Pam used to run around the entire day making preparations for the arrival of their parents. It was so important to her that everything was perfect, from the setting of the silverware to making sure that Amber's shoes and dress matched properly. And even though it was all so much work, she loved the holiday more than any other

"It's so great," she had told him once. "Just setting aside a meal with the people you love most once a year to remind yourself of how much you have to be thankful for." And then how her face had lit up with that glow in her pinked cheeks and that loving vivacity in her eyes...

"I miss you _so much_, Pam," he blurted out. His chest began to heave, and his eyes burned. "I–I can't...I don't..." Jim paused. He wet his lips with his tongue, and shuffled his feet. He wasn't going to lose control of himself. He took a deep breath.

Still. There was still one thing left, one remnant of Pam that she had left behind after her scent had vanished from the sheets and pillowcases...

Jim looked over his shoulder at his four year old daughter. Her tight curls were pulled back in the same way Pam always used to do it. Amber... She looked up at him from her seat in the grass ten feet behind him, and smiled.

"Just wanted to let you know what I was thankful for this year," he said, turning back to face Pam's grave. He crouched down next to it, and lay his cheek, red from the cold, against the top of the cold tombstone. His breathing was ragged, and one tear slipped away as he kissed the stone.

"For Amber. And for every memory of you," he whispered. Jim turned around, and walked back over to Amber, scooping her up and carrying her back down the hill with him towards home.


End file.
